Bacon Scrapins are the little bits of meat left in the greasy fry pan. They’re tasty, but the ‘nutrition’ needs searching for. This tale is a bacon scrapin.
Now that I’m in my 7th decade I’ve decided that if I have to go to a city, I’m going to sneak in – and then stealthily slip out, and as quickly as practical.
I’ve got nothing against cities. I evolved over my years in Toronto and then Montreal. Montreal was and still is a cosmopolitan city, lots of terrific nightlife entertainment, high fashion, big business, leafy parks with historic statues, all set in an old-world cultural ambiance overlooking the river.
In 1970 I lived in an apartment downtown. On Dorchester Street, across from the old C.B.C. building. During the F.L.Q. crisis. One evening there was a loud ‘bang-bang-bang’ on my apartment door as I was making dinner. Standing there, ominously, were two behemoths wearing camouflage gear with tree branches on their helmets. No guff – branches. As camouflage. In the hallway. In the city core.
Without responding to my inquiries, one brushed past me, proceeded to search over, under, in, behind everything in my one room place – and then marched out. The other one providing ‘cover’ in the hallway. Didn’t even close the door. The next sound I heard was the ‘bang-bang-bang’ on the next apartment door. Looking for bad guys. Quite dramatic and hormone raising in a 20-something student. Martial Law is the real thing!
At this life stage, when it comes to cities, I’m just a day-tripper. In. Grab the stuff we can’t get in our local town. Then out. As quick as possible. No fake branches on helmets. Give me the real thing out in the countryside.
My grandson was in a baseball tournament in London recently. This was a ‘got-ta-go’ event. His grandma and I naturally drove to see him play and talk with the coach, who also happens to be our son. Fine family times!
We usually take the 401 when going any distance, but the host park was at the north-east end of the city. I decided we’d take a route that would allow us to sneak in via the back roads, and then quickly slip back out after the games.
It worked like a charm. I have this thing about driving in the country. This part of Ontario suits me to a tee. When I come to the top of a rise, I try to count how many farm buildings I can see between me and the next rise a concession away. Did you ever notice that most buildings in the countryside are set on ‘high points’ on the lot? When you come across villages and cross-roads the settlement is often in a valley or low area near water?
I’m not sure but I think most of the farmers drove into the village to one church or another on Sundays, and then after they retired and sold the farm moved into town. Near the church and the graveyard, maybe? In any case, I think country folk stick close for the duration.
While cruising slowly through small villages I try to imagine how they got started. I check out the remaining buildings. Any signs there was a forge, a harness maker, a frame hotel up against the road, a bake shop, a barber’s like my grandfather’s in Dashwood? Sometimes there’s a house or 3 that you can tell used to be a small store because the entry door’s in the middle with large show windows on each side. Locals used to shop in the village, but now sneak into the nearest city – like me.
We passed through Thorndale, Cobble Hill, (missed Friendly Corners), Kintore, Bennington, Youngsville, Hickson, Philipsburg. I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows the origins, history and stories of these places. I wish I could hear or read them. If anyone has old pictures, stories or mythical tall tales about any of the small places around here I’d sure like to hear from you. Please send me what you’ve got at thisiswilmot@gmail.com.
My grandson plays another tournament at the end of August. We may sit in the shade under the live branches of a pine tree – no helmets needed. I patiently wait to hear where exactly he plays so I can plan my next route cross-country, and maybe sneak in and slip out – the back way.